Guide to UNIX Using Linux 4th Edition Palmer Test Bank

Guide to UNIX Using Linux 4th Edition

Palmer Test Bank
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Guide to UNIX Using Linux 4th Edition Palmer Test Bank

CHAPTER 2: EXPLORING THE UNIX/LINUX FILE SYSTEMS AND FILE

SECURITY

TRUE/FALSE

1. A disadvantage of ufs is that it does not support journaling.

ANS: F REF: 54

2. A directory is a special kind of file that can contain other files and directories.

ANS: T REF: 58

3. As a general rule, the swap partition should be the same size as the amount of RAM in your computer.

ANS: T REF: 61

4. If you plan to have multiple users accessing your system, you should consider having a /var partition
in which to store some or all of the nonkernel operating system programs that are accessed by users.

ANS: F REF: 62

5. The command cd source uses relative path addressing.

ANS: T REF: 76

6. UNIX/Linux systems interpret a single dot character to mean the current working directory.

ANS: T REF: 76

7. The rm -r command can be used to delete a directory that is not empty.

ANS: T REF: 81

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. The UNIX file system (ufs) supports ____, which automatically move data on damaged portions of
disks to areas that are not damaged.
a. hot fixes c. recovery fixes
b. backups d. extents
ANS: A REF: 54

2. In Linux, the native file system is the ____, which is installed by default.
a. ufs c. ReiserFS
b. ext fs d. jfs
ANS: B REF: 54

3. A(n) ____ is used to reduce file fragmentation, because a block of contiguous disk storage can be
reserved for a file.
a. partition c. journal

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 b. node d. extent
ANS: D REF: 54

4. The root of a file system is denoted by the ____.

a. dot (.) c. forward slash (/)
b. dot dot (..) d. backward slash (\)
ANS: C REF: 58

5. The two most popular hard disk interfaces are IDE and ____.
a. ATA c. EIDE
b. SCSI d. RAID
ANS: B REF: 59

6. The ____ partition acts like an extension of memory, so that UNIX/Linux have more room to run large
programs.
a. backup c. virtual
b. primary d. swap
ANS: D REF: 61

7. ____ are programs that perform operations such as copying files, listing directories, and
communicating with other users.
a. Extents c. Applications
b. Utilities d. Services
ANS: B REF: 62

8. If you plan to have multiple users access a system, you can create a ____ partition, which is the home
directory for all users’ directories.
a. /root c. /usr
b. /etc d. /home
ANS: D REF: 62

9. You can create a ____ partition to hold files that are created temporarily, such as files used for printing
documents (spool files) and files used to record monitoring and administration data, often called log
files.
a. /tmp c. /var
b. /usr d. /aux
ANS: C REF: 62

10. The ____ directory contains executables, which are the programs needed to start the system and
perform other essential system tasks.
a. /boot c. /dev
b. /bin d. /etc
ANS: B REF: 64

11. The ____ directory contains the kernel (operating system) images.
a. /boot c. /dev
b. /bin d. /etc
ANS: A REF: 64
12. The term ____ refers to a “black hole”; any data sent to this device is gone forever.
a. void c. null
b. root d. console
ANS: C REF: 66

13. The ____ directory contains configuration files that the system uses when the computer starts.
a. /boot c. /dev
b. /bin d. /etc
ANS: D REF: 66

14. When using the mount command, you use the ____ option to specify a file system to mount.
a. -f c. -t
b. -d d. -m
ANS: C REF: 70

15. The ____ is shorthand for the home directory, which typically has the same name as the user’s account
name.
a. backward slash (\) c. dollar sign ($)
b. forward slash (/) d. tilde (~)
ANS: D REF: 72

16. If you have configured your prompt so that it does not show your working directory, you can use the
____ command to verify in what directory you are located, along with the directory path.
a. pwd c. list
b. who d. dir
ANS: A REF: 74

17. To navigate the UNIX/Linux directory structure, you use the ____ command.
a. nav c. mv
b. cd d. jump
ANS: B REF: 75

18. A(n) ____ path begins at the root level and lists all subdirectories to the destination file.
a. root c. absolute
b. primary d. relative
ANS: C REF: 75

19. UNIX/Linux systems interpret ____ to mean the parent directory.

a. dot (.) c. backward slash (\)
b. dot (..) d. forward slash (/)
ANS: B REF: 76

20. You use the ____ command to display a directory’s contents, including files and other directories.
a. dir c. pwd
b. d d. ls
ANS: D REF: 77
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annoyed in that way ourselves. Lewis, why didn't you waken me before?
Haven't you heard the sounds of life for a good while?"

"Yes," said Lewis, "longer than I wanted to hear them. If they don't want
breakfast to wait they shouldn't get it ready at such an unearthly hour. There is
no sense in rousing up the household in the night. During the busy season it is
a sort of necessity, and I always succumb to it meekly. But at this date it is just
the outgrowth of a notion, and I have waged a sort of silent war on it for some
time. I suppose I have eaten cold breakfasts about half the time this autumn."

"Cold breakfasts! Didn't your mother keep something warm for you?"

"Not by any manner of means did she. My mother would not consider that she
was doing her duty to her son by winking at his indolent habits in any such
fashion; she believes that it is his sacred duty to eat his breakfast by early
candle-light, and if he sins in that direction it is not for her to smooth the
punishment of the transgressor."

Louise laughed over the serio-comic tone in which this was said, albeit there
was a little feeling of dismay in her heart; these things sounded so new, and
strange, and unmotherly!

"Louise dear, I don't want to dictate the least in the world, and I don't want to
pretend to know more than I do; but isn't that dress just a trifle too stylish for
the country—in the morning, you know?"

This hesitating, doubtful sort of question was put to Mrs. Morgan somewhat
later, after a rapid and apparently unpremeditated toilet.

She gave the speaker the benefit of a flash from a pair of roguish eyes as she
said—

"Part of that sentence is very opportune, Lewis. You are evidently 'pretending
to know more than you do.' This dress was prepared especially for a morning
toilet in the country, and cost just fivepence a yard."

"Is it possible!" he answered, surveying her from head to foot with a comic air
of bewilderment. "Then, Louise, what is it that you do to your dresses?"

"Wear them," she answered demurely. "And I shall surely wear this this
morning; it fits precisely."
Did it? Her husband was in great doubt. He would not have liked to own it; he
did not own it even to himself; but the truth was, he lived in a sort of terror of
his mother's opinions. She was easily shocked, easily disgusted; the whole
subject of dress shocked her, perhaps, more than any other. She was almost
eloquent over the extravagance, the lavish display, the waste of time as well
as money exhibited in these degenerate days in the decorations of the body.
She even sternly hinted that occasionally Dorothy "prinked" altogether too
much for a girl with brains. What would she think of Mrs. Lewis Morgan? The
dress which troubled him was one of those soft neutral-tinted cottons so
common in these days, so entirely unfashionable in the fashionable world that
Louise had already horrified her mother, and vexed Estelle, by persisting in
her determination to have several of them. Once purchased, she had
exercised her taste in the making, and her selections of patterns and trimming
"fitted the material perfectly," so Estelle had told her, meaning anything but a
compliment thereby.

It was simplicity itself in its finishings; yet the pattern was graceful in its folds
and draperies, and fitted her form to perfection. The suit was finished at the
throat with a rolling collar, inside of which Louise had basted a very narrow frill
of soft yellowish lace. The close-fitting sleeves were finished in the same way.
A very tiny scarlet knot of narrow ribbon at the throat completed the costume,
and the whole effect was such that her husband, surveying her, believed he
had never seen her better dressed, and was sure his mother would be
shocked. The bewilderment on his face seemed to strike his wife as ludicrous.

"Why, Lewis," she said gaily, "what would you have me wear?"

"I don't know, I am sure," he answered, joining her laugh. "Only, why should
fivepence goods look like a tea-party dress on you?" Then they went down to
breakfast.

Almost the first thought that the young wife had, as she surveyed the strange
scene, was embodied in a wonderment as to what Estelle would say could
she look in on them now.

That great, clean kitchen; the kettle steaming on the cook-stove, and the black
"spider" still sizzling about the ham gravy that was left in it; the large-leaved
table, spread; old-fashioned, blue earthenware dishes arranged on it, without
regard to grace, certainly, whatever might be said of convenience. In the
middle of the table sat the inevitable tallow candle, and another one blinked
on the high mantlepiece, bringing out the shadows in a strange, weird way.
Seated at the foot of the table was John, in his shirt-sleeves, the mild winter
morning having proved too trying for his coat. His father was still engaged in
putting the finishing touches to his toilet by brushing his few spears of gray
hair before the little glass in the further end of the room. Dorothy leaned
against the window and waited, looking both distressed and cross.

"Come! Come! Come!" said the mother of this home, directly the stair-door
had closed after the arrival of her new daughter. "Do let us get down to
breakfast; it will be noon before we get the dishes out-of-the-way. Now, father,
have we got to wait for you? I thought you were ready an hour ago. Come,
Lewis; you must be hungry by this time."

The rich blood mounted to Lewis's cheeks. This was a trying greeting for his
wife; he felt exactly as though he wanted to say that he thought so; but she
brushed past him at that moment, laying a cool little hand for an instant on his.
Was it a warning touch? Then she went over to the young man in the shirt-
sleeves.

"Nobody introduces us," she said, in a tone of quiet brightness. "I suppose
they think that brother and sister do not need introduction. I am Louise, and I
am sure you must be John; let's shake hands on it." And the small, white hand
was outstretched and waiting. What was to be done?

John, who was prepared to hate her, so well prepared that he already half did
so—John (who never shook hands with anybody, least of all a woman; never
came in contact with one if he could possibly help it) felt the flush in his face
deepen until he knew he was the colour of a peony, but nevertheless slowly
held forth his hard red hand, and touched the small white one, which instantly
seized it in a cordial grasp. Then they sat down to breakfast.

Louise waited with bowed head, and was thrilled with a startled sense of
unlikeness to home as she waited in vain. No voice expressed its thankfulness
for many mercies; instead, the clatter of dishes immediately commenced. "Not
one in the family save myself is a Christian." She remembered well that Lewis
had told her so; but was he of so little moment in his father's house that the
simple word of blessing would not have been received among them from his
lips? It had not occurred to her that, because her husband was the only
Christian in the household, therefore he sat at a prayer-less table.

Other experiences connected with that first meal in her new home were, to
say the least, novel. Curiously enough, her imaginings concerning them all
connected themselves with Estelle. What would Estelle think of a young lady
who came collarless to the breakfast table; nay, more than that, who sat down
to eat, in her father's and mother's presence, with uncombed hair, gathered
into a frowzly knot in the back of her neck? What would Estelle have thought
of Mrs. Morgan's fashion of dipping her own spoon into the bowl of sugar and
then back again into her coffee? How would she have liked to help herself with
her own knife to butter, having seen the others of the family do the same with
theirs? How would she manage in the absence of napkins and would the steel
forks spoil her breakfast? And how would she like fried ham, and potatoes
boiled in the skin, for breakfast anyway?

The new-comer remembered that she had but three weeks ago assured
Estelle that farmhouses were delightful places in which to spend summers.
Was she so sure of that, even with this little inch of experience? To learn to
appreciate the force of contrasts, one would only need a picture of the two
breakfast tables which presented themselves to the mind of this young wife.

Aside from all these minor contrasts, there were others which troubled her
more. She had resolved to be very social and informal with each member of
this family; but the formidable question arose, what was she to be social
about? Conversation there was none, unless Farmer Morgan's directions to
John concerning details of farm work, and his answers to Lewis's questions as
to what had transpired on the farm during his absence, could be called
conversation.

Mrs. Morgan, it is true, contributed by assuring Dorothy that if she did not
clean out the back kitchen this day she would do it herself, and that the
shelves in the cellar needed washing off this very morning. Whatever it was
that had occurred to put Dorothy in ill-humour, or whether it was ill-humour or
only habitual sullenness, Louise did not know; certainly her brows were black.
Would it be possible to converse with her? As the question put itself to her
mind, it called up the merry by-play of talk with which Estelle was wont to
enliven the home breakfast table, so sparkling and attractive in its flow that her
father had accused her of setting a special snare for him, that he might miss
his car.

If Estelle were at this table what would she talk about? It was entirely a new
and strange experience to Louise to be at a loss what to talk about. Books!
What had Dorothy read? She did not look as though she had read anything, or
wanted to. Sewing! Well, the new sister was skilled with her needle. Suppose
she said, "I know how to make my own dresses, and I can cut and fit my
common ones; can you?" How abrupt it would sound, and what strange table
talk for the pleasure of the assembled family! She caught herself on the verge
of a laugh over the absurdity of the thing, and was as far as ever from a topic
for conversation.
Meantime Lewis had finished his questionings and turned to her. "Louise, did
you ever see any one milk? I suppose not. If it were not so cold you would like
to go out and see Dorothy with her pet cow; she is a creature—quite a study."

Did he mean Dorothy, or the pet cow? It was clear to his wife that he was
himself embarrassed by something incongruous in the breakfast scene; but
she caught at his suggestion of a subject even while his mother's metallic
voice was saying—

"Cold! If you call this a cold morning, Lewis, you must have been getting very
tender since you were in the city. It is almost as mild as spring."

"Can you milk?" Louise was saying, meantime, eagerly to Dorothy. The
eagerness was not assumed; she was jubilant, not so much over the idea of
seeing the process of milking as over the fact that she had finally discovered a
direct question to address to Dorothy, which must be answered in some form.

But, behold! Dorothy, flushing to her temples, looked down at her plate and
answered, "Yes, ma'am," and directly choked herself with a swallow of coffee,
and the avenue for conversation suddenly closed.

What was she to do? How it was to call such distorted attempts at talk by the
pleasant word conversation! What "familiar interchange of sentiment" could
she hope to get up with Dorothy about milking cows? What did people say
about cows, anyway? She wished she had some knowledge, even the
slightest, of the domestic habits of these animals; but she was honestly afraid
to venture in any direction, lest she should display an ignorance that would
either be considered affected or sink her lower in the family estimation.
Suppose she tried some other subject with Dorothy, would she be likely to
choke again?

Mrs. Morgan tried to help. "Dorothy milked two cows when she was not yet
twelve years old!"

Whether it was the words, or the tone, or the intention, Louise could not tell;
but she immediately had a feeling that not to milk two cows before one was
twelve years old argued a serious and irreparable blunder in one's bringing
up. She was meek and quiet-toned in her reply:—

"I never had the opportunity of even seeing the country when I was a little girl,
only as we went to the sea-side, and that is not exactly like the country, you
know. All mamma's and papa's relatives happened to live in town."
"It must be a great trial to a woman to have to bring up her children in a city.
Ten chances to one if they don't get spoiled."

Mrs. Morgan did not say it crossly, nor with any intention of personality, but
again Louise felt it to be almost a certainty that she was thought not to belong
to that fortunate "one chance" which was not spoiled.

Mother Morgan startled her out of her wandering by addressing her directly—

"I hope you will be able to make out a breakfast. I suppose our style of living is
not what you have been used to."

What could Louise say? It certainly was not, and she certainly could not affirm
that she liked it better.

Her husband turned a certain troubled look on her. "Can't you eat a little?" he
asked in an undertone.

Did she imagine it, or was he more anxious that his mother should not be
annoyed than he was that her appetite should not suffer? Altogether, the
young bride was heartily glad when that uncomfortable meal was concluded
and she was back in that upper room. She went alone, her husband having
excused himself from his father long enough to go with her to the foot of the
stairs and explain that father wanted him a moment.

Do you think she fell into a passion of weeping directly the door of her own
room shut her in, and wished that she had never left the elegancies of her city
home or the sheltering love of her mother? Then you have mistaken her
character. She walked to the window a moment and looked out on the stubby,
partly frozen meadows that stretched away in the distance, she even brushed
a tender tear, born of love for the old home and the dear faces there; but it
was chased away by a smile as she bowed to her husband, who looked back
to get a glimpse of her; and she knew then, as she had known before, that it
was not hard to "forsake all others and cleave to him." Moreover, she
remembered that marriage vows had brought her more than a wife's
responsibilities. She was by them made a daughter and a sister to those
whom she had not known before. They were not idle words to her, these two
relationships. She remembered them each one: Father Morgan, with his old,
worn face, and his heart among the fields and barns; Mother Morgan, with her
cold eyes, and cold hand, and cold voice; Dorothy and John, and the fair,
yellow-haired Nellie, whom a special touch of motherliness had left still
sleeping that morning; and remembering them each, this young wife turned
from the window, and, kneeling, presented them each by name and desire to
her "elder Brother."

CHAPTER V.
BEDS AND BUTTON-HOLES.

How to fit in with the family life lived at the Morgan farmhouse was one of the
puzzles of the new-comer. For the first time, Louise was in doubt how to pass
her time, what to do with herself. Not that she had not enough to do. She was
a young woman having infinite resources; she could have locked the door on
the world downstairs, and, during her husband's absence in field or barn, have
lived a happy life in her own world of reading, writing, sewing, planning. But
the question was, would that be fulfilling the duties which the marriage
covenant laid upon her? How, in that way, could she contribute to the general
good of the family into which she had been incorporated, and which she had
pledged herself before God to help to sustain? But, on the other hand, how
should she set about contributing to the general good? Every avenue seemed
closed.

After spending one day in comparative solitude, save the visits that her
husband managed to pay, from time to time, to the front room upstairs, she,
revolving the problem, lingered in the large kitchen the next morning, and, with
pleasant face and kindly voice, said to Dorothy, "Let me help!" and essayed to
assist in the work of clearing the family table—with what dire results!

Dorothy, thus addressed, seemed as affrighted as though an angel from

heaven had suddenly descended before her and offered to wash the dishes;
and she let slip, in her amazement, one end of the large platter, containing the
remains of the ham, and a plentiful supply of ham gravy—which perverse stuff
trickled and dripped, in zigzag lines, over the clean, coarse linen which
covered the table. Dorothy's exclamation of dismay brought her mother
quickly from the bedroom; and, then and there, she gave a short, sharp
lecture on carelessness.
"What need had you to jump because you were spoken to?" she said, in
severe sarcasm, to the blazing-cheeked Dorothy. "I saw you. One would think
you had never seen anybody before, nor had a remark made to you. I would
try to act a little more as though I had common sense if I were you. This
makes the second clean table-cloth in a week! Now, go right away and wash
the grease out, and scald yourself with boiling water to finish up the morning."

Then, to Louise: "She doesn't need your help; a girl who couldn't clear off a
breakfast table alone, and wash up the dishes, would be a very shiftless sort
of creature, in my opinion. Dorothy has done it alone ever since she was
twelve years old. She isn't shiftless, if she does act like a dunce before
strangers. I'm sure I don't know what has happened to her, to jump and blush
in that way when she is spoken to; she never used to do it."

It was discouraging, but Louise, bent on "belonging" to this household, tried

again.

"Well, mother, what can I do to help? Since I am one of the family I want to
take my share of the duties. What shall be my work after breakfast? Come,
now, give me a place in the home army, and let me look after my corner. If you
don't, I shall go out to the barn and help father and Lewis!"

But Mrs. Morgan's strong, stern face did not relax; no smile softened the
wrinkles or brightened the eyes.

"We have always got along without any help," she said—and her voice
reminded Louise of the icicles hanging at that moment from the sloping roof
above her window. "Dorothy and I managed to do pretty near all the work,
even in summer time, and it would be queer if we couldn't now, when there is
next to nothing to do. Your hands don't look as though you were used to
work."

"Well, that depends," said Louise, looking down on the hands that were
offending at this moment by their shapely whiteness and delicacy; "there are
different kinds of work, you know. I have managed to live a pretty busy life. I
don't doubt your and Dorothy's ability to do it all, but that isn't the point; I want
to help; then we shall all get through the sooner, and have a chance for other
kinds of work." She had nearly said "for enjoyment," but a glance at the face
looking down on her changed the words.

Then they waited; the younger woman looking up at her mother-in-law with
confident, resolute eyes, full of brightness, but also full of meaning; and the
older face taking on a shade of perplexity, as if this were a phase of life which
she had not expected, and was hardly prepared to meet.

"There's nothing in life, that I know of, that you could do," she said at last, in a
slow, perplexed tone. "There's always enough things to be done; but Dorothy
knows how, and I know how, and—"

"And I don't," interrupted Louise lightly. "Well, then, isn't it your bounden duty
to teach me? You had to teach Dorothy, and I daresay she made many a
blunder before she learned. I'll promise to be as apt as I can. Where shall we
commence? Can't I go and dry those dishes for Dorothy?"

Mrs. Morgan shook her head promptly.

"She would break every one of 'em before you were through," she said grimly;
"such a notion as she has taken of jumping, and choking, and spilling things! I
don't know what she'll do next."

"Well, then, I'll tell you what I can do. Let me take care of John's room. Isn't
that it just at the back of ours? I saw him coming from that door this morning.
While you are at work down here, I can attend to that. May I?"

"Why, there's nothing to do to it," was Mrs. Morgan's prompt answer, "except
to spread up the bed, and that takes Dorothy about three minutes. Besides, it
is cold in there; you folks who are used to coddling over a fire would freeze to
death. I never brought up my children to humour themselves in that way."

Louise, not wishing to enter into an argument concerning the advantages and
disadvantages of warm dressing-rooms, resolved upon cutting this interview
short.

"Very well, I shall spread up the bed then, if there is nothing else that I can do.
Dorothy, remember that is my work after this. Don't you dare to take it away
from me."

Lightly spoken, indeed, and yet with an undertone of decision in it that made
Mrs. Morgan, senior, exclaim wrathfully, as the door closed after her daughter-
in-law,—

"I do wish she would mind her own business! I don't want her poking around
the house, peeking into places, under the name of 'helping!' As if we needed
her help! We have got along without her for thirty years, and I guess we can
do it now."
But Dorothy was still smarting under the sharpness of the rebuke administered
to her in the presence of this elegant stranger, and did not in any way indicate
that she heard her mother's comments, unless an extra bang of the large plate
she was drying expressed her disapproval.

As for Louise, who will blame her that she drew a little troubled sigh as she
ascended the steep staircase? And who will fail to see the connection
between her thoughts and the action which followed? She went directly to an
ebony box resting on her old-fashioned bureau, and drew from it a small
velvet case, which, when opened, revealed the face of a middle-aged woman,
with soft, silky hair, combed smooth, and wound in a knot underneath the
becoming little breakfast cap, with soft lace lying in rich folds about a shapely
throat, with soft eyes that looked out lovingly upon the gazer, with lips so
tender and suggestive, that even from the picture they seemed ready to speak
comforting words.

"Dear mother!" said Louise, and she pressed the tender lips again and again
to hers. "'As one whom his mother comforteth.' Oh, I wonder if John could
understand anything of the tenderness in that verse?" Then she held back the
pictured face and gazed at it, and something in the earnest eyes and quiet
expression recalled to her words of help and strength, and suggestions of
opportunity; so that she closed the case, humming gently the old, strong-
souled hymn, "A charge to keep I have," and went in search of broom, and
duster, and sweeping-cap, and then penetrated to the depths of John's room;
the development of Christian character in this young wife actually leading her
to see a connection between that low-roofed back corner known as "John's
room," and the call to duty which she had just sung—

"A charge to keep I have,

A God to glorify."

What, through the medium of John's room! Yes, indeed. That seemed entirely
possible to her. More than that, a glad smile and a look of eager desire shone
in her face as she added the lines—

"A never-dying soul to save

And fit it for the sky."
What if—oh, what if the Lord of the vineyard had sent her to that isolated
farmhouse to be the link in the chain of events which he designed to have end
in the saving and fitting for glory of John Morgan's never-dying soul!

Possibly you would have thought it was a sudden descent into the prosaic, if
you could have stepped with her into the low-roofed room. Can I describe to
you its desolation, as it appeared to the eyes of the cultured lady? She
stopped on the threshold, stopped her song, and gazed with a face of dismay!
Bare-floored; the roof on the eastern side sloping down to within three feet of
the floor; one western window, small-paned, curtainless; one wooden-seated
chair, on which stood the inevitable candlestick, and the way in which the wick
of the candle had been permitted to grow long and gutter down into the
grease told a tale of dissipation of some sort indulged in the night before that
would not fail to call out the stern disapproval of the watchful mother. There
was not the slightest attempt at anything like appointments, unless an old-
fashioned, twisted-legged stand that, despite its name, would not "stand"
without being propped, having a ten-inch square glass hung over it, might be
called an attempt. The bundle of very much twisted and tumbled bed-clothes
in the corner, resting on the four-post bedstead, completed every suggestion
of furniture which that long, low, dark room contained!

"Poor fellow!" said Louise, speaking her thoughts aloud, as the scene grew
upon her. "Why shouldn't he 'give his father some troubled hours'? What else
could they expect? How absolutely pitiful it is that this room and that
downstairs kitchen are really the only places where the young man can spend
a leisure hour! How has Lewis submitted to it?"

Yet, even as she spoke that last sentence, she felt the cold eyes, and
remembered the stern mouth, of his mother, and realized that Lewis was
powerless.

At the same moment I shall have to confess to you that the little new-comer
into the home set her lips in a quiet, curious fashion that she had, which read
to those well acquainted with her this sentence: "I shall not be powerless; see
if I will." And, somehow, you couldn't help believing that she would not. She
had a very curious time restoring order to that confused bed. It must be borne
in mind that she had never before made up a chaff bed. The best quality of
hair mattress had to do with all her experience of bed-making. This being the
case, the initiated will not be surprised to hear that she tugged off the red and
brown patchwork coverlet three times before she reduced that bed to the state
of levelness which comported with her ideas. Then the pillows came in for
their share of anxiety. They were so distressingly small! How did John manage
with such inane, characterless affairs? She puffed them, and tossed them,
and patted them, with all the skilled touches which a good bed-maker knows
how to bestow, but to very little purpose. They were shrinking, shame-faced
pillows still. The coarse factory sheet, not yet "bleached," was first made
smooth, and then artistically rolled under the red and brown coverlet; and,
while it looked direfully unlike what Louise would have desired, yet, when the
whole was finished, even with such materials, the bed presented a very
different appearance from what it did after undergoing Dorothy's "spreading
up."

Then, when the sweeping was concluded, Louise stood and thought. What
was to be done with that room? How much would she dare to do? She had
determined to make no sort of change in her own room at present; she would
not even change the position of the great old bedstead, though this was a
sacrifice on her part only to be appreciated by those who are able, on their
first entrance into a room, to see, by a sort of intuition, the exact spot where
every article of furniture should be in order to secure the best effects, and to
whom the ill arrangement is a positive pain. Louise had seen, even on her first
entrance into her room, that the most awkward possible spot for the bedstead
had been chosen; nevertheless she heroically left it there. But she looked with
longing eyes on that twisted table in John's room. How she would have
enjoyed selecting one of those strong, white, serviceable tidies, and
overspreading the marred top with it, and placing there a book or two, and a
perfume bottle, or some delicate knick-knack, to give the room a habitable air.
For fully five minutes she stood shivering in the cold, trying to determine the
important question. Then she resolutely shook her head, and said aloud, "No,
it won't do; I must wait," and went downstairs with her dust-pan.

During her short absence the dishes had been whisked into their places, the
kitchen made clean, and both mother and daughter were seated at their
sewing. Mrs. Morgan eyed the trim figure in sweeping-cap and gloves, a
broom and dust-pan in hand, with no approval in her glance.

"I should think you were a little too much dressed up for such work," she said,
producing at last the thought which had been rankling for two days. This was
Louise's opportunity.
 "I am dressed just right for work."

"Oh no," she said pleasantly. "I am dressed just right for ordinary work. Why,
mother, my dress cost less than Dorothy's; hers is part woollen, and mine is
nothing but cotton."

This remark brought Dorothy's eyes from her work; and fixed them in admiring
wonder on the well-dressed lady before her. Being utterly unacquainted with
materials and grades of quality, and judging of dress only by its effects, it was
like a bewildering revelation that the dress which to her looked elegant, cost
less than her own. There flashed just then into her heart the possibility that
some day she too might have something pretty.

Louise did not wait for her revelation to be commented upon, but drew nearer
to the workers. Mrs. Morgan was sewing rapidly on a dingy calico for herself.
"Oh, let me make the button-holes," said, or rather exclaimed, the new
daughter, as though it were to be counted a privilege. "I can make beautiful
ones, and I always made mother's and Estelle's."

Now, it so happened that Mrs. Morgan, with all her deftness with the needle,
and she had considerable, was not skilled in that difficult branch of needle-
work, the making of button-holes. Moreover, though she considered it an
element of weakness, and would by no means have acknowledged it, she
hated the work with an absolute hatred, born of a feeling, strong in such
natures as hers, of aversion toward anything which they cannot do as well, if
not better, than others. The thought of securing well-made button-holes, over
which she had not to struggle, came with a sense of rest to her soul, and she
answered, more kindly than Louise had heard her speak before,—

"Oh, I don't want you to bother with my button-holes."

"I shall not," said Louise brightly. "Button-holes never bother me; I like to work
them as well as some people like to do embroidery."

Then she went to the sink in the kitchen, and washed her hands in the bright
tin basin, and dried them on the coarse, clean family towel. Presently she
came, thimble and needle-case in hand, and established herself on one of the
yellow wooden chairs, to make button-holes in the dingy calico; and, with the
delicate stitches in those button-boles, she worked an entrance-way into her
mother-in-law's heart.

CHAPTER VI.
A NEW SERVICE FOR THE SABBATH.

"AT what hour do you have to start for church?"

This was the question which Louise asked of her husband on Saturday
evening, as she moved about their room making preparations for the next
morning's toilet.

"Well," he said, "it is three miles, you know. We make an effort to get started
by about half-past nine, though sometimes we are late. It makes hurrying work
on Sunday morning, Louise. I don't know how you will like that."

"I shouldn't think there would be room in one carriage for all the family. Is
there?"

"Room for all who go," Lewis said gravely.

"All who go! why, they all go to church, don't they?"

"Why, no; in fact, they never all go at one time; they cannot leave the house,
you know."

Louise's bewildered look proved that she did not know.

"Why not?" she asked, with wonderment in tone and eyes. "What will happen
to the house?"

Despite a desire not to do so, her husband was obliged to laugh.

"Well," he said hesitatingly, "you know they never leave a farmhouse alone
and go to church."

"I didn't know it, I am sure. Why don't they?"

"I declare I don't know," and he laughed again. "Possibly it is a notion; there
are ugly-looking fellows prowling around sometimes, and—well, it's the
custom, anyhow."

"Don't they ever close the house and all go away?"

Then was Lewis Morgan nonplussed. Distinct memories rose before his eyes
of Good Fridays and Christmas days, and gala days of several sorts, when the
house had been closed and darkened, and left to itself from early morning late
into the afternoon. How was he to explain why a thing that was feasible for
holidays became impracticable on the Sabbath?

"I'm not sure but that is one of the things that 'no f-f-fellow can f-f-find out,'" he
said, with a burst of laughter. "Do you know 'Lord Dundreary'?" Then:
"Seriously, Louise, our family has fallen into the custom that obtains of not
closing a farmhouse save on special occasions. I suspect the custom
sometimes grows out of indifference for church. You remember that none of
the family have a real love for the service. It is a source of sorrow to me, as
you may suppose. I hope for better things."

Then the talk drifted away into other channels; but in Louise's heart there
lingered a minor tone of music over the thought that the next day would be the
Sabbath. Shut away, for the first time in her life, from the prayer-meeting, from
the hour of family worship, from constant and pleasant interchange of thought
on religious themes, she felt a hunger for it all such as she had never realized
before, and closed her eyes that night with this refrain in her heart, "To-
morrow I shall go to church."

The first conscious sound the next morning was the dripping of the rain-drops
from the eaves.

"Oh dear!" Lewis said, dismay in his voice. "We are going to have a rainy
day!"

A careful, critical look at the prospect from the eastern window confirmed this
opinion, and he repeated it with a gloomy face, adding,—

"I don't know when the weather has succeeded in disappointing me so much
before."

"Never mind," Louise said cheerily. "It will not make much difference. I don't
mind the rain. I have a rainy day suit, that mamma used to call my coat of
mail. It is impervious to all sorts of weather; and, with your rubber coat, and a
good-sized umbrella, we shall do almost as well as though the sun shone."

But her husband's face did not brighten.

"It is not personal inconvenience that I fear for you," he said gravely, "but
disappointment. The truth is, Louise, I am afraid we can't go to church. This
looks like a persistent storm, and my father has such a love for his horses,
and such a dread of their exposure to these winter storms, that he never
thinks of getting them out in the rain unless it is absolutely necessary; and you
know he doesn't consider church-going an absolutely necessary thing. Could
you bear to be disappointed, and stay at home with me all day?"

"Why, yes," said Louise slowly, trying to smile over those two words, "with
me." "That is, if it is right. But, Lewis, it seems so strange a thing to do, to stay
at home from church all day on account of a little rain that would hardly keep
us from a shopping excursion."
"I know, looking at it from your standpoint it must seem very strange; but all
the education of my home has been so different that I do not suppose it even
seems as strange to me as to you. Still I by no means approve; and, as soon
as I can make arrangements for a horse of my own, we will not be tried in this
way. Indeed, Louise, I can manage it now. Of course, if I insist on it, my father
will yield the point, but he will offer very serious objection. What do you think?
Would it be right to press the question against his will?"

"Certainly not," his wife said hastily. "At least," she added, with a bright smile,
"I don't suppose the command to obey one's parents is exactly annulled by
the marriage service. Anyhow, the 'honour thy father and thy mother' never is."

And she put aside her church toilet, and made her preparations to do that
which was to her an unprecedented thing—stay at home from church in full
health and strength.

The question once settled that, under the circumstances, it was the proper
thing to do, it was by no means a disagreeable way of spending Sabbath
morning. Her husband had been so constantly occupied since their home-
coming in carrying out his father's plans for improvements on the farm, that
Louise had seen but little of him; and when, after breakfast, they returned to
their own room, and he, in dressing-gown and slippers, replenished the
crackling wood fire, and opened the entire front of the old-fashioned stove,
letting the glow from it brighten the room, Louise admitted that the prospect
was most inviting.

She drew in her own little rocker, which had travelled with her from her room
at home, and settled beside him, book in hand, for a delightful two hours of
social communion, such as they had not enjoyed for weeks before.

The reading and the talking that went on in that room, on that rainy Sabbath
morning, were looked back to afterward as pleasant hours to be remembered.
Occasionally the fact that it was Sunday, and she not at church, and a picture
of the dear church at home, and the dear faces in the family pew, and the seat
left vacant in the Sunday school room, would shadow Louise's face for an
instant; but it brightened again. She had chosen her lot, guided, as she
believed, by the hand of her Lord. It was not for a face realizing this to be in
shadow.

It was not until the Sunday dinner had been eaten, and they were back again,
those two, in the brightness of their enjoyed solitude, that the grave,
preoccupied look on Louise's face told that her thoughts were busy with
something outside of their surroundings—something that troubled her.
"Lewis, what shall we do this afternoon?" she asked him, interrupting a
sentence in which he was declaring that a rainy Sunday was, after all, a
blessing.

"Do!" he repeated. "Why, we will have a delightful Sunday afternoon talk, and
a little reading, and a good deal of—well, I don't know just what name to give
it; heart-rest, perhaps, would be a good one. Aren't you enjoying the day,
dear?"

She turned toward him a smiling face.

"Yes, with a thoroughly selfish enjoyment, I am afraid. I was thinking of the

family downstairs; what can we do to help them, Lewis?"

"Oh!" said her husband, and his face clouded; he seemed to have no other
suggestion to offer.

"They did not look as though they were enjoying the day. I think it must be
dreary for Dorothy and John. I wish we could contribute something to make
the time seem less lonely to them. Suppose we go down, Lewis, and try what
we can do."

Her husband looked as though that was the thing, of all others, which he had
the least desire to do.

"My dear Louise," he began slowly, then stopped, and, finding that she waited,
began again. "The trouble is, wife, I don't know how we can help any of them.
They are not good at talking, and the sort of talk in which John and Dorothy
indulge wouldn't strike you as being suited to the Sabbath day; in fact, I don't
believe you would join in it. They are used to being at home on the Sabbath;
we are always home from church by this time, and the afternoon is the same
to them it always is. I don't believe we can do anything, dear."

Mrs. Morgan did not look in the least convinced.

"The afternoon ought not to be the same to them it always has been, should it,
Lewis? We have come home, a new element in the family. We ought, surely,
to have some influence. Can't we find something to say that will do for the
Sabbath? What have you talked about with the family before I came? How did
you spend Sunday afternoons?"

"Up here, in my room, when it wasn't too cold; and sometimes, when it was, I
went to bed, and did my reading and thinking there. I rarely go downstairs on
Sunday until milking time. You see, Louise, I really don't know my own family
very well. The early age at which I left home, being only back for a few weeks
at a time during vacations; then my exile, with Uncle John, to Australia—all
this has contributed to making me a sort of stranger among them. I doubt
whether John and Dorothy feel much better acquainted with me than they do
with you. They were both little things when I went away; and, during this last
year, I hardly know what is the matter. Perhaps I haven't gone about it in the
right way, but I haven't seemed to make any advances in their direction."

"To be very frank with you, Louise, John is always sullen toward me; and
Dorothy acts as though she were half afraid of me, and her foolish jumpings
and blushings seem so out of place, when one remembers that she is my own
sister, that, I will confess to you, I sometimes feel utterly out of patience with
her. As for my mother and father, while I honour them as true, unselfish,
faithful parents, there are many subjects upon which we do not think alike;
and I am often at a loss to know how to get along without hurting their
feelings. The result is, that I shirk the social a good deal, and devote myself to
myself, or did. Now that I have you to devote myself to, I am willing to be as
social as you please."

The sentence, begun in seriousness, he had purposely allowed to assume a

lighter tone; but Louise held with sweet gravity to her former topic.

"Even Christ pleased not himself," she quoted gently. Then added, "You may
imagine how pleasant it is to me to sit here with you for a whole quiet day.
Nevertheless, Lewis, let us go downstairs to the family, and see if we cannot,
as a family, honour the day together."

She had risen as she spoke, and drawn her little rocker away from the stove,
preparatory to leaving the room. Very slowly her husband followed her
example, reluctance on every line of his face.

"I will go down with you, if you say so; but, honestly, I never dreaded to do
anything more in my life! I can imagine that it seems a very strange thing to
you, but I really and truly don't in the least know what to say when we got
down there—I mean, that will be in keeping with our ideas of the Sabbath, and
will help anybody."

"Neither do I," said Louise quietly. "Since we both feel our unfitness, let us
kneel down before we go, and ask for the Spirit's guidance. Don't you know he
promises: 'Thine ears shall hear a word behind thee saying, This is the way,
walk ye in it'? I cannot help thinking that he points us down to that family
room; why should not we ask him to fill our mouths?"
Without another word, and with a strange sense of solemnity about him, the
young husband turned and dropped upon his knees beside his wife.

A few minutes thereafter they of the kitchen were startled by the unexpected
entrance of the young couple into their midst. Almost any movement would
have startled the quiet that reigned therein.

The kitchen, on a dull day, with its scarcity of windows, was a dark and dingy
spot, the clean and shining stove being the only speck of brightness. The
family group was complete; yet Louise, as she glanced around her, taking in
their occupations, or want of occupations, could not forbear feeling the sense
of dulness which their positions suggested. Farmer Morgan, with his steel-
bowed spectacles mounted on his forehead, winked and blinked over the
columns of the weekly paper. Mrs. Morgan sat bolt upright in her favourite
straight-backed chair, and held in her hands an old-fashioned family Bible, in
which Nellie had dutifully been spelling out the words until her restlessness
had gotten the better of her mother's patience, and she had been sent to the
straight-backed chair in the corner, to sit "until she could learn to stand still,
and not twist around on one foot, and hop up and down when she was
reading!" How long will poor Nellie have to "sit" before she learns that lesson?

Dorothy, without the hopping, was not one whit less restless, and lounged
from one chair to another in an exasperatingly aimless way, calling forth from
her mother, several times, a sharp—

"Dorothy, why can't you sit still when you get a chance? If you worked as hard
as I do all the week, you would be glad enough of a day of rest." But poor
Dorothy was not glad; she hated the stillness and inaction of the Sabbath; she
breathed a sigh of relief when the solemn-voiced clock clanged out another
hour, and looked forward with a sort of satisfaction even to the bustle of the
coming wash-day morning. John was there, as silent and immovable as a
statue, sitting in his favourite corner, behind the stove; in his favourite attitude,
boots raised high to the stove-hearth; slouched hat on, drawn partly over his
eyes; hands in his pockets, and a deeper shade of sullenness on his face. So
it seemed to Louise. "Poor fellow!" she said, in compassionate thought. "It is a
surprise to me that he doesn't do something awfully wicked. He will do it, too; I
can see it in his face; unless—"

But she didn't finish her thought, even to herself. These various persons
glanced up on the entrance of the two, and looked their surprise. Then Farmer
Morgan, seeing that they proposed to take seats, moved his chair a little and
motioned Lewis nearer the stove, with the words—
"A nasty day; fire feels good."

"Yet it hasn't rained much," Lewis said, watching Louise, and finding that she
went over to the unoccupied chair nearest Nellie, he took the proffered seat.

"Rained enough to make mean going for to-morrow; and we've got to go to
town in the morning, rain or shine. I never did see the beat of this winter for
rain and mud; I don't believe it will freeze up before Christmas."

"You can't get started very early for town," remarked Mrs. Morgan. "There was
so much to do yesterday that I didn't get around to fixing the butter, and it will
take quite a little spell in the morning; and Dorothy didn't count over the eggs,
and pack 'em, either. Dorothy's fingers were all thumbs, by the way she
worked yesterday; we didn't get near as much done as common."

"She and John were about a match, I guess," Farmer Morgan said, glancing at
the sullen-browed young man behind the stove. "Yesterday was his unlucky
day. About everything you touched broke, didn't it, John?"

"That's nothing new."

John growled out this contribution to the conversation between lips that
seemed firmly closed. Lewis glanced toward his wife. How would she think
they were getting on? What would she think of butter, and eggs, and accidents
as topics for Sabbath conversation?

But Louise had put an arm around little Nellie, and was holding a whispered
conversation with her, and at this moment broke into the talk.

"Mother, may this little maiden come and sit on my lap, if she will be very good
and quiet? My arms ache for the little girlie who used to climb into them at
about this hour on Sunday."

CHAPTER VII.
A NEW SABBATH CLASS.
"NELLIE is too big to sit on people's laps," her mother said; "but she can get
up, if she wants to, and can keep from squirming about like a wild animal,
instead of acting like a well-behaved little girl."

"Too big" though she was considered, Nellie, poor baby, gladly availed herself
of the permission, and curled in a happy little heap in her new sister's arms;
when commenced a low-toned conversation. Lewis watched her and
struggled with his brain, striving to think of some way of helping.

"Have you got acquainted with Mr. Butler, father?"

Now Mr. Butler was the new minister; and Louise, who had heard his name
mentioned, was interested in the answer. Farmer Morgan laid down his
newspaper, crossed one leg over the other, tilted his chair back a trifle, and
was ready to talk.

"Acquainted with him? No, I can't say that I am; he knows my name, and I
know his; and he says, 'How do you do?' to me when he meets me on the
street, if he isn't in too brown a study to notice me at all. I reckon that as about
as near as I shall get to an acquaintance. I ain't used to any great attention
from ministers, you know."

"I thought possibly he had called during my absence."

"No, he hasn't. When it comes to making a friendly call, we live a good way
out, and the road is bad, and the weather is bad, and it is tremendously
inconvenient."

"We always live a good way out of town, except when there is to be a fair or
festival, or doings of some kind, when they want cream, and butter, and eggs,
and chickens; then we are as handy to get at as anybody in the congregation."
This from his mother.

Lewis could not avoid a slight laugh; the social qualities of the little church in
the village, or at least its degree of social intercourse with its country
neighbours, was so clearly stated by that last sentence.

"Oh, well," he said, "it is a good way out for those who have no horses to
depend on, and many of the church people are in that condition. As for Mr.
Butler, he has been here but a short time; of course he hasn't gotten around
the parish yet."
"No," said his father significantly. "It takes a dreadful long time to get around a
small field, especially when there's no special motive for going. But we don't
care; a body would think, to hear us talk, that we were dreadful anxious for a
call. I don't know what he would call for; 'pears to me it would be a waste of
time."

"You like his preaching, don't you, father?"

The farmer tore little strips from the edge of his paper, and rolled them
thoughtfully between his thumb and finger for a little before he answered.

"Why, his preaching is all well enough, I suppose; I never heard any preaching
that wouldn't do pretty well, considering; it's the practising that I find fault with.
I can't find anybody that seems to be doing what the preachers advise. What
is the use in preaching all the time, if nobody goes and does it?"

This was Farmer Morgan's favourite topic, as indeed it seems to be a favourite

with a great many people—the inconsistencies of the Christian world. A fruitful
topic, certainly; and it is bitterly to be regretted that there is cause for such
unending sarcasm on that subject. Lewis had heard the same sentiment often
before, and being met—as, unfortunately, so many of us are—by an instant
realization of his own inconsistencies, his mouth had been stopped at once.
To-day he rallied his waning courage, and resolved upon a point-blank
question.

"Well, father, why don't you, who understand so well how a Christian ought to
live, set us an example, and perhaps we will succeed better when we try to
copy you?"

This question astounded Farmer Morgan. Coming from a minister, he would

have considered it pretty sharp; have laughed at it good-naturedly, and turned
it aside. But from his own son, and spoken in such a tone of gravity and
earnestness as left no room for trifling, it startled him. Lewis had never spoken
to him in that direct fashion before. In truth, Lewis had been, during all his
Christian life at home, comforting his heart and excusing his conscience with
the belief that, in order not to prejudice his father against religion, he would do
well to make no personal appeals of any sort. To-day, in the light of the brief
conversation which he had held with his wife, and, more than that, in the light
of the brief prayer in which they had asked the guidance of the Holy Spirit, he
began to conclude that he had been a coward.

"Well," his father said, after a moment of astonished silence, "that is a fair
question, maybe; but then, after all, it is easily answered. There's folks enough
trying at it, and making failures, without me to swell their number. Till I see
somebody who is succeeding a little better than any one I know, I haven't got
the courage to begin."

"Leaving us an example, that ye should fellow His steps," quoted Lewis

Morgan solemnly. "After all, father, the true pattern is certainly perfect; why not
follow that? Who ever asks the school-boy to imitate the scrawl of some
fellow-pupil, so long as the perfect copy is just before his eyes, at the top of
the page?"

His father regarded him meditatively. Was he touched at last—impressed by

the thought of the wonderful life waiting for him to follow? Lewis Morgan's
breath came quickly, and he waited in trembling eagerness for the reply. It was
the first time that he had attempted anything like a personal conversation on
this subject with his father.

Slowly, and with apparent great seriousness, the answer came at last:—

"It is almost a pity that your health didn't hold out; I ain't sure, after all, but you
would have made as good a minister as the rest of them. Sometimes I'm a
trifle afraid that you have got a little too much learning to make a downright
good farmer."

The quick bounds of hope that the son's blood was making receded in dull,
heavy throbs, and he counted his first attempt a failure. He looked over to
Louise. Was not she ready to give up this hopeless attempt at spiritualizing
the tone of the conversation downstairs? He thought he would give almost
anything to hide his sore heart just then in the quiet of their own room, with the
sympathy of her presence to soothe him.

But Louise was telling Nellie a story; and as he listened and watched her, it
became evident to him that both Dorothy and John were listening. Dorothy
had ceased her restless fidgetings, and settled into absolute quiet, her arm
resting on the broad, low window-seat, and her eyes fixed on Louise. John
had drawn his hat lower, so that his eyes were hidden entirely; but something
in the setting of his lips told Lewis that he heard. Very quietly Louise's voice
told the story; very simply chosen were the words.

"Yes, there He was in the wilderness, for forty days, without anything to eat,
and nowhere to rest, and all the time Satan tempting him to do what was
wrong. 'Come,' he said to him; 'if you are the Son of God, why do you stay
here hungry? What good will that do anybody? Why don't you make bread out
of these stones? You can do it—you could make a stone into a loaf of bread in
an instant; why don't you?"

"And could he?" Nellie asked, her eyes large and wondering.

"Oh yes indeed. Why not? Do you suppose it would be any harder to turn a
stone into bread than it would be to make a strawberry, or a potato, or an
apple?"

"Strawberries and apples and potatoes grow," said this advanced little sceptic.

"Yes; but what makes them grow? And why does a strawberry plant always
give us strawberries, and never plums or grapes? It never makes a mistake.
Somebody very wise is taking care of the little plant. It is this same person
whom Satan was trying to coax to make bread out of stones."

"Well, why didn't he do it? I don't think it would have been naughty."

"I'll tell you. It is very hard to be hungry; it was a great temptation; but Jesus
had promised his Father that he would come here and bear everything that
any man could have to—that he would just be a man. Now a man couldn't
make bread out of stones, you know, so Jesus wouldn't be keeping his
promise if he did it; and then, another thing, if he had used his great power
and gotten himself out of this trouble, all the poor hungry boys and girls, who
are tempted to steal, would have said: 'Oh yes, Jesus don't know anything
about how it feels to be hungry; he could turn stones into bread. If we could do
that we wouldn't steal either.' Don't you see?"

"Yes," said Nellie, "I see. Go on, please; he didn't make any bread, did he?"

"Not at that time; he told Satan it was more important that he should show his
trust in God than to show his power by making stones into bread. Then Satan
coaxed him to throw himself down from a great high steeple, so that the
people below would see him, and see that he wasn't hurt at all. He reminded
him of a promise that God made about the angels taking care of him."

"I wish he had done that!" Nellie said, with shining eyes. "Then the people
would all have believed that he was God."

"No, they wouldn't; for afterward he did just as wonderful things as that. He
cured deaf people and blind people, and raised dead people to life, and they
didn't believe in him; instead, some of them were angry with him about these
very things. He told Satan that to put himself in danger, when there was
nothing to be gained by it, was just tempting God. Dear me! How many boys
and girls do that. Then Satan told him that he would give up the whole world
to him if he would just fall down and worship him. I suppose Jesus thought
then all about the weary way that he would have to travel—all the things he
would have to bear."

"Did the world belong to Satan?" Nellie asked; at which question John was
betrayed into a laugh.

"Well, yes, in a sense it did. Don't you see how much power Satan has over
people in this world? They seem to like to work for him. Some of them are
doing all they can to please him, and he is always at work coaxing them to
give themselves entirely to him, promising them such great things if they only
will. I suppose if he had kept that promise to Jesus, and given up leading the
world in the wrong road, it would have been much easier for Jesus."

"But Jesus didn't do it."

"No, indeed. Jesus never would do anything wrong to save himself from
trouble or sorrow. He said, 'Get thee hence.' What a pity that little boys and
girls don't refuse, in that way, to listen to Satan, when he coaxes them and
offers them rewards! Think of believing Satan! Why, the first we ever hear of
him he was telling a lie to Eve in that garden, you know; and he has gone on
cheating people ever since."

"He never cheated me," said Nellie positively.

"Didn't he? Are you sure? Did he never make you think that it would be so
nice to do something that you knew mother wouldn't like? Hasn't he made you
believe that you could have a really happy time if you could only do as you
wanted to? And have you never tried it, and found out what an untrue thing it
was?"

"Yes," said Nellie, drooping her head. "One time I ran away from school and
went to the woods—I thought it would be splendid—and I got my feet wet, and
was sick, and it wasn't nice a single bit."

"Of course not; and that is just the way Satan keeps treating people. Shouldn't
you think, after he had deceived them a great many times, as they grew older
they would decide that he was only trying to ruin them, and would have
nothing more to do with him?"
"Yes," said Nellie, nodding her wise little head, "I should. But, then, maybe
they can't get away from him."

"Oh yes, they can; don't you see how Jesus got away from him? And what do
you think he suffered those temptations for, and then had the story written
down for us? Just that we might see that he knew all about temptations and
about Satan, and was stronger than he, and was able to help all tempted
people. He says he will not let people be tempted more than they can bear,
but will show them how to escape."

"Then why doesn't he?"

"He does, dear, every single time; he has never failed anybody yet, and it is
hundreds and hundreds of years since he made that promise."

"But then I should think that everybody would be good, and never do wrong."

"Ah, but you see, little Nellie, the trouble is, people won't let him help them. I
mean he takes care of all who trust in him to do so. But if you think you are
strong enough to take care of yourself, and won't stay by him, nor obey his
directions, nor ask his help, how can you expect to be kept out of trouble?
When I was a little bit of a girlie I went to walk with my papa. He said: 'Now,
Louise, if you will keep right in this path I will see that nothing hurts you.' We
were going through the woods. For a little while I kept beside him, taking hold
of his hand. Then I said: 'O papa, I'm not afraid; nothing will hurt me.' And
away I ran into the thickest trees, and I got lost, and was in the woods nearly
all night! Do you think that was my papa's fault?"

"No," said Nellie gravely. "But—I wish there wasn't any Satan. Does he ever
bother you?"

Louise's head dropped lower; the talk was becoming very personal.

"Not often now," she said, speaking low. "He comes to me and whispers
thoughts that I don't like, and I say—"

"Oh!" said Nellie, loud-voiced and eager, "I know—you say, 'Get thee behind
me, Satan.'"

"No," said Louise firmly, "not that. I heard a lady say once that she was as
much afraid of having Satan behind her as she was of having him anywhere
else. So am I. Instead, I ask Jesus to send him away. I just say, 'Jesus keep
me;' and at the name of Jesus, Satan goes away. He knows he cannot coax
Jesus to do any wrong. But, oh dear! How hard he fights for those people who
will not have Jesus to help them. He keeps whispering plans in their ears, and
coaxing them, they thinking all the time that the plans are their own, and they
follow them, expecting to have good times, and never having them; and all the
while Satan laughs over their folly. Isn't it strange they will not take the help
that Jesus offers?"

"Yes," said Nellie, slowly and gravely, with intense earnestness in voice and
manner. "I mean to."

Louise drew her closer, rested her head against the golden one, and began to
sing in low, sweet notes:—

"Take the name of Jesus ever

As a shield for every snare;
When temptations round you gather,
Breathe that holy name in prayer."

All conversation, or attempts at conversation, had ceased in the room long

before the singing. Some spell about the old, simply-told story of temptation
and struggle and victory had seemed to hold all the group as listeners. John's
face, as much of it as could be seen under his hat and shading hand, worked
strangely. Was the blessed Holy Spirit, whose presence and aid had been
invoked, using the story told the child to flash before this young man a
revelation of the name of the leader he had been so faithfully following, so
steadily serving, all the years of his young life? Did he begin to have a dim
realization of the fact that his unsatisfying plans, his shattered hopes, were but
the mockery of his false-hearted guide? Whatever he thought he kept it to
himself, and rose abruptly in the midst of the singing and went out.

"Come," said Farmer Morgan, breaking the hush following the last line, "it is
milking time, and time for a bit of supper, too, I guess. The afternoon has been
uncommon short."

He tried to speak as usual, but his voice was a trifle husky. He could argue,
but the story told his child had somehow subdued him. Who shall say that the
Spirit did not knock loudly, that Sabbath afternoon, at the door of each heart in
that room? Who shall say that he did not use Louise Morgan's simple efforts
to honour the day in stirring the rust that had gathered about the hinges of
those long-bolted doors?
 CHAPTER VIII.
NEW LIGHT.

THE little, old-fashioned square "stand" was drawn up in front of the stove,
which last was opened to let a glow of brightness reach across the room, and
beside it were Lewis and Louise Morgan, seated for an evening of good cheer.
She had a bit of needle-work, in which she was taking careful stitches; and
her husband held in his hand, open to a previously set mark, a handsomely
bound copy of Shakespeare. He was one of those rare persons—a good
reader of Shakespeare; and, in the old days at home, Louise had delighted to
sit, work in hand, and listen to the music of his voice in the rendering.

He had not commenced the regular reading, but was dipping into bits here
and there, while he waited for her to "settle," as he called the bringing of her
small work-basket, and the searching out her work. Now, although she was
"settled," and looking apparently thoughtful enough for the saddest scenes
from the great writer, he still continued his glancings from page to page,
breaking out presently with—

"Louise, do you remember this?"

"'I never did repent for doing good,

Nor shall not now; for in companions
That do converse and waste the time together,
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,
There must be needs a like proportion
Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit.'"

"Do you remember what a suggestive shrug of her shoulders Estelle gave
over the line—"
"'That do converse and waste the time together'?"

"I suspect she thought it fitted us precisely."

"Yes," Louise said, smiling in a most preoccupied way. That her thoughts were
not all on Shakespeare, nor even on that fairer object, Estelle, she presently
evinced by a question.

"Lewis, how far did Dorothy get in her studies?"

"Dorothy?" repeated her husband, looking up in surprise, and with difficulty

coming back from Shakespeare; "I don't know, I am sure. As far, I remember
hearing, as the teachers in our district school could take her. That is not
saying much, to be sure; though, by the way, I hear they have an exceptionally
good one this winter. Poor Dorothy didn't have half a chance; I tried to
manage it, but I couldn't. Hear this, Louise,—"

"'How he glistens through my rust!

And how his piety does my deeds make the blacker!'"

"Isn't that a simile for you?"

"Very," said Louise; and her husband glanced at her curiously. What was she
thinking of, and how did that brief "very" fit in with Leontes' wonderful simile?

"Well," he said, "are your thimbles and pins and things all ready, wife? Shall I
commence?"

"Not just yet, dear; I want to talk. What do you think about it; was she
disappointed at not having better opportunities?"

"Who? Oh, Dorothy! I thought you were talking about Hermione; she fainted,
you know. Yes, Dorothy was disappointed. She wanted to go to the academy
in town, and she ought to have had the opportunity, but we couldn't bring it to
pass. I was at home but a few weeks, or I might have accomplished more.
What is the trouble, Louise dear? How does it happen that you find poor
Dorothy more interesting than Shakespeare to-night?"